


Remember Our Solar System

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Ficlet, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-13
Updated: 2012-10-13
Packaged: 2017-11-16 05:34:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock had friends before John. Sort of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remember Our Solar System

**Author's Note:**

> Silly little thing I wrote for Tumblr to go along with a drawing. Thought I'd post on here because I have a writer's block and tweaking things helps pull me out of it.

“I used to have a friend, when I was younger,” Sherlock says one day into the silence that has stretched between him and his flatmate. John stills his hands on the keyboard of his laptop, the uneven  _tap-tap…tap_  coming to a stop as he looks over the screen to where Sherlock is sitting on the sofa, wordlessly prompting him to continue. Sherlock doesn’t meet his eyes when he starts speaking again.

“He lived on an estate a mile or so away from the Holmes estate. I can’t remember exactly how we met but he was…okay - he could keep me interested, at least. We bonded over the fact that we had annoying brothers, I think,” his lips twist into what resembles a smile but looks a little bit too sad to be one, “His parents hated each other but stayed together for the monetary benefit. They used to fight all the time but never in front of him. Always behind locked doors, so their voices were the only things that travelled between the walls.

“Growing up on estate can be lonely and I sympathised with that. His brother had gone away to University and so had Mycroft. We both knew what it was like to be alone. Often, he’d make things up - see things and patterns in shadows or stars that other people couldn’t,” Sherlock furrows his eyebrows as he stares intently at a spot on the carpet, hands clasping one other. John just continues to listen to him.

“His parents finally noticed one day, when he was eight or so, when he started telling them some story he’d made up about the stars and the moon and the sky; about how he thought there might be someone out there doing something. Me and him came up with all sorts of theories about space. The Sun was always the enemy, and the moon was always on the good side. We both preferred darkness over daylight.

“Either way, his parents were the type that didn’t appreciate imagination. So they killed it, choked it until it withered and died away,” John notices that his flatmate looks almost angry by this point. He closes his laptop with a quiet click, and puts it on the ground soundlessly, careful not to interrupt the flow of words, “They showed him books on astronomy, on the solar system, books that effectively stomped his and my theories of space into the ground. I didn’t…I didn’t speak to him after that. We didn’t…” He trails off.

As nice as it is for Sherlock to share part of his life with John for once, he’s unbearably confused. “Why are you telling me this, Sherlock?” he asks, then realises how it sounds, “I don’t mind I just, it’d be nice to have some form of context.”

“No, no. You know what,” Sherlock stands, straightens his dressing gown before stepping around the coffee table, “Ignore everything I just said, delete it. It doesn’t matter.” He gives a tight smile and makes to head for his bedroom. It takes a few seconds before John finally understands what Sherlock was trying to tell him.

“No, Sherlock— wait, would you?” he stands up, managing to grab the mad man by the forearm, “I understand, okay. You…you deleted the Solar System so you could go on believing the theories that you and him made up were true. I’m not entirely stupid, see?” John tries for a smile, but as Sherlock looks at him it drops from his features almost immediately.

Sherlock’s smiling but it, once again, doesn’t look like one. His eyes are dimmed, as though he’s reminiscing about it. He’s usually proud when John manages to work things out for himself. John’s about to ask if he’s okay when Sherlock replies:

“I didn’t have a friend growing up, John. I didn’t—,” Sherlock lets out a forced breath, pulls his arm from John’s slackened grip in the same motion. He grits his teeth, as though he’s angry at himself, “As if I’d have a friend, honestly. The boy was  _me_ , John. It was me.”

With that, he does turn and go to his room. John lets him.

\----


End file.
